


Love is Never Wrong

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [12]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Coming Out, Family, Love, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set at the end of Peter and Neal’s years as undergrads at Harvard in 1986.  They are home for their last Winter Break before graduating, and plan on coming out to Peter’s mother and father, but fear the consequences of telling that truth.  A direct sequel to <a href="http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/275934.html">Love How You Want to Love (and love who you please)</a>, which should be read first (a lot of things will make more sense).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is Never Wrong

**Winter Break, Senior Year, 1986**

It was after midnight when Peter pulled up in front of his parents’ house. The icy remnants of an early winter storm that dumped a foot of snow on the Northeast crunched under the tires of his ancient Jeep Cherokee. Christmas lights and electric Menorahs decorated the neighbors’ windows, and the Burke house was no exception. Strands of colored lights wound around the porch, and a small tree was visible through the front window. The light over the front porch was on, and there were lights on in the living room. His folks were waiting for them.

Neal was curled up in a ball on the seat next to him, as sound asleep as anyone could be in a freezing car with minimal comforts.

“Wake up. We’re home.” He gave Neal a little shake, and when he muttered a protest and went back to sleep, Peter pushed a little harder. “You want some snow down your back?”

“Nooooo. Want bed.”

“Then come on – it looks like the folks are waiting up for us.”

Neal opened his eyes, blinking owlishly. They glowed in the light of the street lamps and all Peter wanted to do was lean over and kiss him. But this wasn’t the time or the place. Neal closed his eyes again.

“If I leave you here, you’ll freeze by morning.” Peter wasn’t going to allow that to happen, though. Neal was just recovering from a bout of pneumonia.

“Okay, okay.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and stretched, fingers scraping against the canvas top. “Remind me again why you got this thing?”

“It was cheap – and will you come on?” Neal had wanted to buy Peter a new car, but Peter refused. He had just enough saved for the Jeep; taking Neal’s money for a car would have been unacceptable. It was one of the few times they had a serious argument since that awful time in high school. 

Peter went around the Jeep and opened the passenger door, pulling at Neal. “Don’t know why you’re so tired – I’m the one who’s been driving almost non-stop for the last six hours.” They had hit traffic coming out of Boston and all the way through Connecticut. There was an accident on the Tappan Zee Bridge that delayed them still another hour.

Neal finally got up, retrieved his duffle from the back of the Jeep and shuffled zombie-like behind Peter. The front door opened, spilling light out onto the walkway. Peter hurried in. Neal followed, seemingly drawn by the warmth.

“About time you boys made it home.” His mom hugged him, then Neal, who dropped his bag and rested a sleepy head on her shoulder.

“Traffic was a bitc – a bear.” Peter corrected himself before his mom could take him to task for cursing. 

“Are you hungry? Want me to fix you something?” 

Peter smiled. No matter what, his mother was always ready to feed them.

“Nah – just exhausted.” He cast a pointed look at Neal, who was still leaning against his mother and snoring faintly. He tugged him upright, only to find himself now being used as a vertical pillow.

“All right, I’ll let you boys get some sleep. There are fresh linens on both your beds. I’ll tell your father not to wake you.”

He kissed his mom again. “Thanks – we’ll see you in the morning.”

She shook her head, “Don’t be so optimistic – and sleep as late as you want. I don’t expect to see either of you before noon.” 

Peter dragged Neal towards the back of the house and their bedrooms. Neal would have automatically followed Peter into his room, but Peter turned and pushed him into the guest bedroom, the one Neal had slept in so many nights before they went away to college. Still half-asleep, Neal turned and cuddled Peter. “Wanna hold you, you keep me warm.”

It was almost too hard to resist, but he did. Peter whispered, “Damn it, Neal – keep your voice down.”

“Mmm, sorry. Forgot.”

Peter couldn’t really blame him – they’d been sleeping – sweet-dreams-rest-your-weary-head type sleeping – together since the very first night of freshman year. It was always difficult when they had to go to separate rooms.

Neal stumbled towards the bed and Peter took pity on him. Though he’d been the one to drive, Neal had spent the last week wading through a grueling set of finals while still recovering from pneumonia, which – for some near-miraculous reason – Peter hadn’t gotten.

The bedroom was warm enough ( _thank you, Mom_ ), and he pulled off the three layers of sweaters that Neal was wearing, leaving on the thermal undershirt. Boots came off, then jeans, and it didn’t take too much effort to maneuver Neal under the covers. 

He did encounter some difficulty evading those octopus-like arms trying to pull him into the bed. “Neal – stop it. We’re at my parents’ house – we can’t …”

Neal released him with another muttered apology, grabbed a pillow and rolled onto his side. Peter ran his hand through Neal’s curls, bent over and kissed his scruffy cheek. “It’s just for a week; I’m going to have a hard time sleeping without you, too.”

Neal turned his head and opened his eyes. “I love you.”

Peter couldn’t help himself. He kissed Neal again, on his lips. “I love you too – now get some sleep.” 

He took a moment to pick Neal’s clothes up off the floor and went to his own bedroom. 

Peter stripped to his shorts and got into bed. As always, the first night back here was weird. It wasn’t as if his bedroom was kept as a shrine to his teenage triumphs. All the trophies and memorabilia had been packed away; the room repainted and made up with a few personal touches. It welcomed him home, but didn’t infantilize him either. The weirdness was just his own memories – Neal’s desperate plea for help, all the hours they spent together, all the hours they had spent fucking that first, wonderful weekend. Being back here – with Neal ten feet too far away – was just strange. Tomorrow night would be a little better. He hoped.

Despite his physical weariness, he felt jazzed up, a little anxious. This was going to be a difficult week. It was their last winter break before graduation, not that either of them were going anywhere. Neal had already been accepted to Harvard Law and he had a place at the Business School. Most of their friends were using this final winter break to party like it was going out of style. That really wasn’t their scene, for so many reasons.

They had spent hours discussing it, finally coming to the agreement that it was time to tell his parents the truth. That he was gay – no, _they_ were gay. And that they loved each other, for almost forever.

He had never heard either of his parents use homophobic slurs and he had one very strong memory of his father getting angry at him for using the word “homo” when he was thirteen years old, but that was his parents. They had a very strong ethic about equality and justice. Probably had a lot to do with his Uncle Tommy, who was a civil rights attorney. But on the other hand, Peter knew that what was practiced in the abstract was very different when it was personal. Besides, he expected that they never had really encountered any gay people. 

He hoped that they’d understand, he could only dream that they’d accept him, accept Neal as his life partner and continue to love and welcome both of them. What he feared was just the opposite – they’d get thrown out. 

Peter would survive. Scholarships would cover the last semester’s tuition and he wasn’t dependent on either his parents or Neal for grad school tuition. He had grants and student loans that would fund his MBA, and though it would bother him, he wouldn’t have to contribute to the housing costs if he didn’t have the money. After their first year, Neal got fed up with the lack of privacy in the dorms and bought a small house just outside of Cambridge, on the other side of the Charles River. He called it an investment, claiming he’d more than recoup his money when he sold the place after graduating law school. It wasn’t a palace, and the basement apartment they rented to a pair of lesbians barely covered the mortgage, but it was infinitely better than living in the crowded dorms.

Neal had money – from his father’s pension, from the PBA fund for officers killed in the line of duty, from insurance payments. There was also cash and investments and real estate from Vincent Adler, financial genius and dead pervert. He had left half his fortune to Neal, outright, much to his mother’s aggravation. Initially, Neal hadn’t wanted to take it, but Peter said that he deserved it. Neal still struggled with accepting it, finally deciding that he could use it to do good. For every dollar that Neal took, he donated an equal amount to charities dedicated to helping abused and exploited children.

While Peter wouldn’t need his parents’ financial assistance to finish school, he did need their love and support. It would kill something in him if they shunned him. And yet, he couldn’t keep living a lie. Not to them. There would be plenty of other people he was going to be lying to.

Sleep caught him unawares, and it was close to one in the afternoon before he opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the crack in the shades, momentarily blinding him. But the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bagels was enough to get him to full wakefulness. Peter got up, prepared to put on yesterday’s grimy clothes, but someone had retrieved his duffle from the Jeep and placed it inside the room. He showered, dressed, and joined his parents in the kitchen. 

Neal was there, too. For some reason, strange and disconcerting, it was like looking at a stranger. He was dressed impeccably, a black cashmere turtleneck and dove gray trousers. His hair, a little long, was styled and Peter would bet that he used something to make it shine so perfectly. He sat with his legs crossed, a cup of coffee in his hand, the picture of sophisticated elegance. Peter felt oddly outclassed and out-of-place in his well-worn jeans and Harvard sweatshirt.

But then Neal looked up and smiled and the world resettled into familiar patterns. There was a smudge of cream cheese on his cheek and the aura of unobtainable perfection disappeared. This was Neal, _his Neal_ and no amount of good clothes or pretty manners would change that.

“Hey there, sleepy head.” Mom got up and gave him a hug. “Told you that you were optimistic about getting up early. Want some breakfast?”

Peter’s rumbling stomach answered for him and he was soon settled with a plate of eggs, a toasted bagel, coffee and juice.

His father looked up from the newspaper. “What do you boys have planned for today?” 

For all its simplicity, there was an odd note in that question. Before Peter could decipher his dad’s tone, Neal answered.

“Need to go pick up my car.” He sighed. “And go see my mother.”

_That explained the fancy clothes._

Neal turned to him. “If you wouldn’t mind dropping me off there after breakfast – excuse me – brunch, I’d appreciate it.”

“No prob.” Peter took sip of coffee and looked at Neal over the rim of the cup. They never really talked about his mother.

“After that, I want to go to the cemetery.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll meet you there, if you’d like.”

There was an odd tension in the room as Neal’s lips curved in the barest of smiles. “Thanks.”

No one spoke until his mother came by with the pot of coffee. “I’m going to leave you to fend for yourselves, I’ve got a little shopping that has to be done today.” She put the pot down in front of him. “Joe, you’ll drive me?”

His dad wasn’t paying attention – he was looking from him back to Neal, his expression unreadable.

“Joe?” His mother’s tone sharpened.

“Hmm, what?”

“I said, you’ll drive me to the mall?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” 

His parents left them in the kitchen. Neal reached over, ostensibly to pick up the coffee pot, but he gave Peter a quick, hard kiss instead. Peter didn’t brush him away, though his nerves were screaming that his folks could come back in without warning.

Neal sat back down, staring at Peter. “Sorry, I needed that too much.”

Peter listened carefully; he could hear his father’s car pull out of the driveway. There was no one who would walk in on them, now. He tugged Neal out of his chair and between his legs, drawing his head down. He kissed Neal just as hard, consuming him. Neal tasted perfect and familiar, like toothpaste and coffee and breakfast. He held him close and they rested their foreheads against each other. 

Neither of them said anything, words weren’t necessary.

Neal leaned back against the table. “Are you sure you’re ready to tell your folks this week?”

“No – I’m not. I’ll never be ready.” Peter rested his hands on Neal’s hips and looked up. “But I love you, and I’m sick of lying about you, about how I feel.”

Neal touched his face. “After Christmas, then. We tell them after Christmas. This way …”

“We can enjoy the holiday.” Peter completed the sentence, but not the thought. _And this might be the last Christmas we enjoy together as a family._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal backed the red BMW out of the garage just a little too fast, nearly crashing into the on-coming traffic. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

No maybe about it. This was the final betrayal.

He drove aimlessly for a half an hour, ending up at the cemetery where his father was buried. As much as he loved him, he felt no connection to this place. The memories of his father were those of sunshine and laugher and being swung in the air by a pair of strong arms. He could remember his father’s face, lines fanning out from the corners of his bright blue eyes, the white teeth flashing between smiling lips, the feelings of security created by his deep voice.

Neal didn’t remember his father’s funeral - he didn’t remember coming here often as a boy, either. Even before his mother married Adler. This was just another place. But Neal got out of his car anyway. The grave was well tended, the stone wearing its age lightly. Neal dusted off the remnants of ice and snow from the headstone, tracing the words inscribed on the granite - “James Bennett Caffrey, Husband, Father, Hero.”

Life was too short to remain angry. That’s what Aunt Ellen would tell him when she wanted him to reconcile with his mother. Peter said that he needed to, too. What if she died and he never forgave her? He’d feel bad for the rest of his life.

But his mother was still as self-centered as always. She was angry that Adler left him half of his money and so much property, angry that Neal wouldn’t give it to her, angry that Neal preferred to spend his vacation with Peter’s family than with her. She didn’t see that her clinging possessiveness and her constant whining drove him away. Maybe if she had always been there for him, if she hadn’t absconded with his childhood or at least made some pretense about protecting him when it mattered, it would have been different. But four years ago, she had just popped back into his life, expecting him to be her little boy again, and got furious when he wasn’t.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine her reaction if he told her he was gay.

Neal stood in front of his father’s grave, contemplating the potential mess his life could be. It was two days until Christmas, two days before all hell broke loose.

He was about to get back into his car and leave when the sound of tires on pavement caught his attention. It was Peter’s Jeep, terribly out of place in this well-tended cemetary, but still welcome. Peter got out and walked up the stone-flanked aisle, his boots crunching the ice and snow-covered grass.

“You’re just recovering from pneumonia; do you think it’s such a good idea to be standing out in the cold without a coat or scarf?”

Neal didn’t bother to answer. He just shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

Peter tugged him away. “Come on, we’ll go to the diner and you can tell me all about the debacle with your mother.”

Neal closed his eyes briefly and leaned into Peter, absorbing his warmth, his strength, his understanding. They went to their cars without talking, and Neal followed Peter out of the cemetery and back to the main road. There was a small diner, decorated for the holidays – a half-lit menorah sharing window space with a Christmas tree. They parked next to each other, and went inside. Thankfully, the place was quiet. They both ordered coffee and waited for the server to leave them in privacy.

“Okay, what happened?”

Neal just wrapped his hands around the heavy ceramic cup, trying to absorb the warmth. He didn’t answer Peter.

“Neal?”

He hissed, making an effort not to scream in anger. “Don’t ever expect me to see that woman again! I don’t care what happens to her. She gave birth to me, but that’s it. There’ll be no reconciliation _ever_. I'm done with her.” He took a sip of coffee. It tasted as bitter as his emotions.

Peter reached out and placed a hand on his wrist. 

Neal looked into his lover’s eyes, comforted beyond measure by that simple, unguarded touch. They never made physical contact like this in public, it was too dangerous. He turned his hand, and their fingers slid across each other’s palms before separating. The waiter came back, offering refills that they declined.

“Tell me what happened.”

He didn’t want to talk about it, he really didn’t, but his stomach curdled at the memory and suddenly he couldn’t keep it bottled up anymore. He whispered, “She told me to get over it.” 

Peter blinked. “What?”

“She said that it’s time I got over what happened. That Vincent was dead, and he left me half his money and besides, it wasn’t like he actually raped me or anything. I needed to grow up and get over it.”

When Peter didn’t say anything, Neal looked up. He had never seen such rage in another person’s eyes. Peter was shaking from it, and it was Neal’s turn to reach out and try to give comfort. “It’s done – it’s over. I’ll never see her again; we’ll never talk about this again. She’s dead to me.”

Peter nodded, and the anger slowly leached from his eyes. “We have each other – that’s all that matters, right?”

“Yeah.” He offered Peter a tentative smile. They’d be fine.

They sat there, quieting taking comfort from each other. Peter eventually broke the silence. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell my folks now? Maybe we should wait until after graduation?”

He never loved Peter more than at this moment. This was a gift from him, keeping silent so that Neal could have the Burkes’ love and support just a little longer. He had Aunt Ellen, but Cathy and Joe Burke had been bedrocks of safety and security since he was twelve. Losing them was would hurt – maybe more than what his mother said to him earlier in the day.

But still, he knew the toll that lying was taking on Peter, the increments of distance building up between him and his parents. “No. Now is the time. Waiting won’t make things better or worse.” Neal pulled out his wallet and left a twenty for the two coffees. It was Christmas, after all.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Joe needed a little peace and quiet, a few minutes by himself before he changed his son's world. He stepped outside, onto the dark, wintery patio. Random thoughts drifted through his mind as he watched the stars twinkle through the bare trees.

He missed his dog. 

Satchmo had been gone for two years now, passing peacefully on a night like this. Cathy had suggested getting a shelter dog or rescuing a greyhound, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to make such a long-term commitment again. Peter would be graduating this spring, and he was thinking about retiring. A dog would be lovely, but what if they wanted to travel?

Besides, it wouldn’t be the same. There would be no little boy to race around, to play catch with, to keep safe and warm in the middle of the night.

Joe scrubbed at his face; the tears were hot against his icy cheeks.

He couldn’t help but remember that first Christmas, when Satchmo was a puppy and Peter was just seven. He stuck all of the bows from his presents on the poor little guy. The dog kept chasing its tail and wriggling and barking and finally collapsed in an exhausted heap.

Where did the years go? One day his son was just big enough to sit on a tricycle and barrel down the sidewalk, scattering the falling leaves, and the very next day, he was getting ready to graduate from college. From Harvard.

He was so damn proud of Peter, his big, beautiful son, so perfect in so many ways. 

The thread of an old melody played in his head, _Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset_. Cathy had loved that musical, and secretly, so did he. What it meant to be a parent, a father. But he could never agree with Tevye’s decision to shun his child. _Love is never wrong._

“Joe, what’s the matter?” He hadn’t heard the door open. Cathy joined him at the edge of the patio. 

“Nothing, sweetheart.”

She chuckled. “Married for almost thirty years and I’m still your sweetheart?”

“Always and forever.”

“Everything all right?” Cathy reached up and touched his cheek, tracing the path of tears.

“Just thinking.” He swallowed hard. “Where did all the time go? Peter’s graduating soon.”

She tucked her arm in his and huddled close. “I don’t know. It seems like just yesterday we were sending him off to kindergarten. Now…”

“Now he’s a man, with a life of his own.”

“A good man.”

Joe looked up at the stars, trying to find some answers. “Am I doing the right thing, Cath?”

“I think so.” She paused. “Yes, I know so. Peter has to know that he doesn’t have to keep this a secret anymore. And Neal needs this too. He’s as much our child as Peter is.”

“Then let’s do this, before I lose my courage.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He sipped the cup of eggnog his mother handed to him and made a face. Despite the rum, it tasted disgusting. But he supposed he should drink it – if just to appreciate how his folks were treating him like an adult now. Speaking of his folks, neither of them was in anywhere in sight. Neal was in his father’s lounge chair, by the fire, reading something that looked like next semester’s coursework. Peter couldn’t help but cast a glance over to the corner of the room, where Satchmo’s bed used to be. He missed his dog.

The family room smelled delicious and Peter breathed deep, trying to store up the sense-memory. Cinnamon and cloves and pine and the smoky deliciousness of roasting chestnuts overlaid with the scent of wood smoke. There was a huge tree in the corner, clad in a lifetime’s worth of ornaments – handmade baubles from years gone by. He walked over and examined a few. There was the one he had made in third grade art class – a wooden block coated in glue and dipped in red and green glitter. Most of the glitter was gone or tarnished, but he could still remember the excitement of coming home and giving it to his mom to put on the tree. Neal had contributed to the decorations, too – a series of chess pieces painted with exquisite care, like from some fantastic medieval set.

Strange to think that he’d may never see these again; he hoped that his parents wouldn’t throw them out in disgust.

There were a lot of packages under the tree – Neal had (once again) failed to exercise any sense of restraint. When Neal was laid up with pneumonia, Peter had taken a bunch of large and heavy boxes to the post office. It looked like his parents had been equally extravagant.

A door opened somewhere; he could feel a chill sneak in and mingle with the warm, fragrant air. His parents followed and Peter wondered what they’d been doing outside. 

“What’s up?” If he wasn’t mistaken, it looked like his dad had been crying. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, just needed to clear my head. Too much eggnog.” His dad mock-glared at Neal, who gracefully vacated the lounger.

But his father didn’t sit down. “What do you say we each open one gift now?” Before anyone could answer, he went to the tree and pulled out a small-ish box and handed it to Peter. “Here – open this one.”

Peter stood there, bemused. He knew some people did this – but his mother had always been adamant that all presents were to be opened on Christmas morning, after the sun rose, after the coffee maker had started.

What was even stranger was how his dad pushed him over to the chair that Neal just vacated, and sat him down. He looked over to his mother, but her expression was unreadable. Neal, who was now stretched out on the rug, just shook his head and shrugged, he wasn't clued in either.

He opened the box, which was surprising hefty. It wasn’t a box – it was a book, an old book. When he turned it over, Peter realized that it really wasn’t a book, but an ancient photograph album. He looked up at his dad, who had a sad and almost wary expression. Because it seemed expected, he opened the album, not at all certain what to expect.

There was an old black and white photo of a young boy, he looked vaguely familiar. He turned the page to find other pictures of that child as he was growing up. There was one of him holding an infant, then playing with a younger boy – presumably that infant. Peter could see a strong resemblance between both boys – they were brothers maybe? One of the pictures had a tiny date printed on the bottom, July, 1946.

“Is this you?” Peter pointed to the older boy. 

His dad shook his head. “Just look at all the pictures and I’ll answer your questions after.”

Peter swallowed, there was something going on here, something he couldn’t figure out. Neal had gotten up and was sitting on the arm of the chair, looking over his shoulder. Peter turned the page and the boy was a teenager. Neal gasped. “He looks just like you.”

Tilting his head, Peter examined the photograph – he’d have to admit that the resemblance was startling. It clearly wasn’t his father – not from the shape of his mouth or eyes. He always thought that he must have looked like his mom’s side of the family. The other pictures on the page showed a different boy with his doppelganger, someone the same age. The little boy was in some of those pictures, too. Peter could now see that that kid was his father.

He kept turning pages. The two teenagers grew up, graduated high school. It looked like they went off to college together too – NYU if he wasn’t mistaken. There was one photograph that took his breath away.

Those boys – now men, were smiling at each other and their feelings were beautiful and obvious. Peter knew that look. He’d seen it so many times. It was the look he’d seen in Neal’s eyes every morning over coffee, and every night when they got into bed. It was love, simple and perfect.

The last photograph was a graduation picture, and it could have been him in a vintage suit and an old-fashioned haircut. But that wasn’t the last thing in the album. There was a newspaper clipping, yellowed from age. His heart broke when he read it. James Burke was killed in a mugging on Bleeker Street in August, 1959. He was twenty-five years old.

“Dad?” He had to blink furiously to stop the tears from falling.

“James was my brother.”

Peter wasn’t shocked – not after seeing those pictures in the photo album. “You’ve never talked about him. You never talk about your family.” It was true. His mom had a big, boisterous extended family, complete with over a dozen cousins, aunts and uncles and still-living parents, but his father had no family of his own. And whenever Peter would ask, his dad would gently change the subject. Maybe this was why.

“What happened?” There had to be more to this than some random mugging.

His dad paced the room, then pulled up a small chair and sat down next to him. It was a weird position to be in, looking down at his dad. Peter felt Neal get up, to give them space. But his dad did something very strange. He reached out and grabbed Neal, told him he needed to stay and hear this, too.

“Hear what, Dad?” He almost knew what was about to come, he could almost hear the words.

“My brother, James, was gay.” 

That was it. But as much as Peter knew that this was coming, he couldn’t see where it was going. Why, after so many years of silence, was his father telling him this now? And then …

_Oh._

But his dad didn’t take notice of his epiphany. There was more of the story to tell. “My parents … my parents – ” He wiped a hand across his face, and Peter could see the terrible torment in his dad’s eyes. “They hated the thought that their eldest son was gay and they threw him out. They said he was dead, that they wished he’d never been born. They threw him out and then threw every single reminder of their eldest child into the trash. They wiped that house clean. I was fourteen years old and this – ” He rested a hand on the old album. “This was the only thing I could rescue.

“To this day, I can’t understand how they could do that. She carried him under her heart for nine months, she held him and sang to him and loved him and then called him an abomination.” 

“Dad …” The words caught in his throat, tangled in the shared grief, in the tears, in his own fears.

His father took a deep breath, visibly girding himself for what was to come. “I know, Peter. I know about you and Neal and don’t ever think for a single moment that I love you – that your mother and I – love you any less.” A warm hand came down on his shoulder, it was his mom, and she was crying too. 

“You don’t have to keep it a secret from us, not anymore.” 

Peter struggled to get up, to wrap his arms around these two wonderful, wonderful people. “Thank you.” It sounded stupid, but it was the only thing he could think to say. And maybe the words didn’t matter, because just the feel of those arms – the ones that held him when he was small and needed them for everything, the ones that hugged him and pushed him off to his first day of school, that helped him stand on his own – meant everything. 

“Thank you – oh God, thank you.” And finally, perfectly, “I love you.”

The embrace eased, if just to give them all some air. 

“I – we – we were going to tell you. After Christmas, before we went back to Cambridge, Neal and I were going to tell you the truth.”

“Son …” His father squeezed his hand.

“We thought that you’d throw us out. We were prepared for that, but we couldn’t keep living a lie.” Peter looked up, around – for the first time realizing that Neal wasn’t in the room. “Neal? Where's Neal?”

His mom shook her head. “I didn’t see him leave.”

Peter noticed the patio light was on. He started to go to Neal, but his dad pushed him back into the chair. “Let me go talk to him, please.”

He agreed, because he couldn’t understand why Neal needed to separate himself – why he had run away. And still, he worried about Neal. “Please take a jacket to him, he’s just getting over pneumonia.”

His dad smiled, and Peter saw the love, the pride in his father’s eyes that he had never expected to see again. “You’re a good man, Peter. Neal’s lucky to have you.”

There was only one way Peter could respond. “No, Dad. I’m lucky to have him.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was too fucking cold to be outside without a coat on. But Neal desperately needed fresh air, he needed to breathe and he couldn’t in that room, with all of those ghosts. He knew that he was behaving like a shit, running out on Peter, on Aunt Cathy and Uncle Joe.

 _Oh, god. Poor Uncle Joe…_ So much made sense now. His understanding, his compassion.

A door opened, light carving through the darkness like a knife. Someone joined him on the patio. “Here, put this on. Peter’s worried that you’ll get sick again.”

It was Uncle Joe. Neal put on the coat, he tried to say “thank you” but the words were stuck.

“Peter said that you were going to tell us this week. That you were both tired of all the secrets, that you expected us to throw you out.”

Neal looked down, he felt so ashamed of himself and he didn’t know why. “I love him, and I’d never do anything to hurt him. Please believe me.” 

“Neal – you’ve been like a son to Cathy and me, and after Peter, there is no one I respect more. I’ve always been proud of you, and I am glad that Peter has you in his life. That you two have found happiness together.”

“You mean that? You really do?” Neal had heard Uncle Joe’s words, he had read that sad little newspaper article, he could see that Peter’s father still mourned his brother’s death. But it was still so hard to take in.

“My brother’s death wasn’t just my tragedy. Robbie lost someone, too.”

“Robbie?”

“My brother’s partner – they were a lot like you and Peter. Friends since junior high, they went away to college together.”

“You knew him?”

“Yeah – didn’t you see the pictures of the three of us?”

“I – I wasn’t sure that was him – Robbie.”

“He was a good guy. He never minded that I wanted to tag along with my big brother; he treated me just like James did. When they went away to college, Robbie was always the one who would write to me. James would dictate something for the letter, but Robbie would fill me in on their life in the big city.”

“What happened?” Neal had to know, even though he was afraid of the answer.

Uncle Joe didn’t answer right away. He was facing away from the light, but Neal could sense the pain there. “Robbie had gone to medical school, to Columbia. He was an intern, and on rotation when James was mugged. He got home after a seventy-two hour shift and found their apartment empty. He searched for James for three days – the police wouldn’t take a missing persons report. Not for some faggot who was probably fucking his way through the bathhouses.”

Neal was afraid of what was to come.

“After a week, Robbie finally called the city morgue. Someone from St. Vincent’s said that a mugging victim that fit James’ description had been brought in three nights prior. His skull was cracked and he died on the operating table. Since there was no identification, he was shipped out to the morgue and was probably already in a grave in Potter’s Field.”

The story didn’t end there. “Robbie took the money that was supposed to be for his next semester’s tuition and paid to have James exhumed and buried properly. I was a senior in high school and I was going to go to college in the fall – I was supposed to go to Columbia. I had secretly planned on going to visit James, see if I could live with him and Robbie.” Uncle Joe paused, lost in his memories. 

“But that never happened, of course. Robbie came to see me, to tell me what happened to my brother. He had a friend – someone who worked on the Post – and he got him to run that article. I think he had hoped that my parents would see it and be ashamed, or grieve, or feel something other than their self-righteous bigotry. It’s been more than thirty years, and I still can’t believe their reaction.”

“They didn’t care?” Neal whispered.

Uncle Joe’s laughter was bitter. “Worse. My father actually said a prayer of thanks that the world had one less fag in it.” 

Neal gasped in disbelief.

“Now you know why I’ve never talked about my family.”

“What happened to Robbie? Did you keep in touch?”

“Robbie died two years later. He didn’t go back to medical school; he did the stupidest thing possible. He joined the Army as a medic and was shipped off to Vietnam. He was killed by a sniper when trying to save a wounded soldier. I had decided not to go to college – I didn’t want to take a dime from my parents and there was no way I could afford Columbia on my own. So I started working construction, saving up to go to CUNY, to support myself during the school year. I came home one day and found the telegram hanging from my apartment door. Robbie had specified that I was to be notified in the event. Nothing seemed to matter after that – I took my savings and paid for Robbie to be buried next to James. So they could be together again.”

“I don’t know what’s worse – what happened to James, or what happened to Robbie.” Neal bit his tongue at that – Peter’s father had lost his brother. Not once, but twice in the most terrible ways possible.

“I was angry for a long time, Neal. I’ve never forgiven my parents – they didn’t deserve it and still don’t. But I was angry at James too, for leaving me behind. Angry that he died, angry that Robbie died – both so alone. They didn’t deserve that.” He took a shuddering breath and Neal tried to give comfort, taking a cold hand in his, squeezing it.

Uncle Joe finally spoke again. “But I’m not angry at them anymore. Maybe their deaths weren’t pointless, weren’t a waste. Maybe that tragedy taught me that life, _that love_ is too damn precious. If I can love my son and accept him for what he is – a good man, a person who is worthy of love by just existing – then what happened to them didn’t happen in vain.”

Neal didn’t bother to wipe away the tears and simply wrapped his arms around Peter’s dad, giving comfort, taking all the love that this wonderful man had given, was still giving him, for the better part of his life. 

The door opened, and Neal was momentarily blinded by the shaft of light.

“Dad, Neal? Is everything okay?”

Neal broke the embrace and gave them both a weak smile. “Yeah – it’s good.”

Uncle Joe kissed him on the cheek, kissed Peter, too. “Let’s go in, it’s too damn cold to stand around outside crying.”

“Give us a minute, okay, Dad?”

Uncle Joe nodded and went back into the house. 

It was still too dark to see much of Peter’s expression, but Neal didn’t have to. Peter pulled him close, wrapping himself around Neal like he’d never let him go. He could feel the emotions rolling off Peter.

“How did we get so lucky?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know,” Neal answered. “Whatever happens, we never forget this. We never forget them.”

“No, never.”

Neal couldn’t say who kissed whom, if he brought Peter’s head down to his, or if Peter leaned in. But they kissed there on the patio and in full view of their family. They kissed like the lovers they were, freely, openly, and with perfect joy. 

__

FIN


End file.
